Only One
by Permanent Rose
Summary: Brittany wants to be more than just something warm under Santana.


Your memories are as muddled as your perception of reality. They dance in your mind like fleeting daydreams, the unfocused images blurring together.

But you remember her.

You always remember her, even when everything else slips away.

You remember the first day you saw her, a skinny little seven-year-old with dark skin and dark eyes—dark eyes filled with fear and worry.

You took her hand, watching her eyes grow so wide that it frightened you. You swallowed your own fear, pushing a smile to your face, watching as her own lips quivered, until they pulled themselves into a hesitant grin as well.

You always had trouble making friends. You lived in a world of your own, chasing rainbows and butterflies, dancing on the edge of what everyone else knew.

You wanted to make her a part of your world. You wanted to show her everything that was yours. So she followed you, deserting the masses of other children, holding tightly to your hand as she became yours.

And you became hers.

XXXX

Her hand always fit perfectly in yours.

You loved the way her soft brown skin contrasted with your the pale, translucent glow of yours. You grasped her hand as often as you could, linking pinkies, intertwining fingers. Her hand belonged there, nestled softy in yours. Nowhere else.

She didn't remain shy. After growing comfortable with her new surroundings, she was quick to take control. You didn't mind. She introduced you to her world as well, and they merged together, creating a perfect place for the both of you.

While other children played mundane games of hopscotch and kickball, you would slip away the empty lot behind the school, linking fingers, fabricating stories, sharing secrets.

Sometimes she'd kiss you, gently brushing her lips against yours, so faintly that you weren't sure it had even happened. You lived for those moments, relishing the fluttery feeling you got in your stomach, never imaging that anything could be more perfect.

She made you friendship bracelets, strung with identical beads. She placed hers proudly on her wrist, and she reached for yours, sliding it over your skin.

You looked at the bracelet. You looked at it hard, your lips turning into a grin as you fingered the plastic beads, deciding you loved it. You loved it because it was just like hers.

XXXX

The bracelet now rests in a the drawer of your nightstand, the beads chipped and faded but still intact.

You stopped wearing it when she stopped wearing hers, a pang shooting through your chest a you let the familiar beads fall from your wrist. Your heart felt as empty as your wrist as you shut it in the dark drawer.

That was sixth grade, a year of changes.

You started middle school, sure that a new building would mean nothing, as long as she was there with you.

But she was changing while you remained naïve and consistent. It was harder for you to keep up; harder for you to understand, and you found yourself wishing for the days when things were simple.

She still kissed you, but now only at home. At school, she had a new love, a new interest.

Boys.

You could not see what she saw in them. You could not grasp it at all. You saw her. Only her.

But now she saw more than you.

So you pretended. You pretended to like those boys, too, and it made her smile, made her happy, less angry—made her say things that you didn't fully understand, less and less. When she lost her virginity at fourteen, so did you. A meaningless act, passion that had no feeling, but you didn't mind, as long as you still had her. As long as you'd still get to feel her lips against your skin.

XXXX

She helped you zipper up your Cheerio uniform for the first time, her nimble fingers brushing against the skin of your neck.

You shivered, smiling slightly, turning to face her.

"Thanks, Brit. Thanks for joining the squad with me; we're going to have so much fun," she told you, smiling as she leant in to peck your lips lightly.

You nodded. Though you had no interest in cheerleading, you couldn't imagine yourself anywhere else now. You couldn't imagine yourself anywhere without her.

You laced your fingers through hers, squeezing her hand tightly. Never wanting to let go.

XXXX

The space next to you on the bed is still warm. Your fingers curl around the emptiness, weighing her words, trying not to let them sting.

Of course she doesn't want Puck more than she wants you. She says these things all the time—things that higher her status. Things that she doesn't really mean. It doesn't mean she loves you any less. Doesn't mean anything. Doesn't mean anything at all.

But as you peel off your Cheerio uniform, readying yourself for bed, you find yourself wishing that Puck would stay in jail forever and ever.

Because maybe she'd love you more if he were gone.

XXXX

You want her to be your partner.

But you do understand why she wants to win. She loves a good competition, and the prize seems to be made just for her. You don't know anyone who loves Breadsticks more than she does.

It turns out the boy in the wheelchair is not a robot, so you make him your duet partner, sealing the deal by taking his virginity. You feel stronger, more in control.

You feel like her.

And for a little while, it makes you feel better.

XXXX

She's in a sulky mood, when she doesn't win the competition. And when you tell her that she at least got to sing, when you did not, she snaps at you, shooting you a scathing glare.

Your throat tightens, hating to see her this way. Hating that you were the one who made her mad.

Her gaze softens after a moment, and she sighs heavily, smiling gently. "Want to come over my place tonight?"

Your heart rate accelerates, that familiar pounding in your chest that always tells you to give in, to let go. To feel what you want.

But you want her to feel it to.

"I can't."

She frowns, looking at you quizzically. You've never shot her down before.

"Why not, Brit?" she practically whines. "Last time, we got cut short. And Puck's still in the slammer, and I wants to get my sexy on..."

The feeling of longing in your chest turns to anger, an emotion that rarely penetrates through your easygoing, naïve outlook on life. "Because of the boy. The one in the wheelchair. The one who's not a robot," you manage to keep your anger in check as you utter the words.

She squints her eyes, looking at you with an expression of confusion. "Brit, you're not making any sense. Both you and I know you don't really like him."

Her words are true, but you're finding it difficult to tell her that's not at all what you meant. That his words still ring through your ears. The meaningless way you've been sleeping with people for ages now is exactly what she is doing to you. She's walked all over your naivety, your willingness to please her. And it hurts.

It hurts a lot.

"Maybe some other time," you whisper softly, biting back the tears in your throat.

You turn away from her, walking down the hall before she can even utter a word.

XXXX

Puck is back, after two weeks in juvy.

She hangs all over, like some sort of love sick monkey, clamping herself to his arm, making out passionately with him between classes.

When you go home, you take your bracelet out of the drawer, remembering when the beads were bright and new.

You want to go back. You want her back. You want the Santana you fell in love with, the Santana you will always love. You want her to see that; you want her to see things the way you see them.

You want to be her only one.


End file.
